Opens A Window
by Acepilot6
Summary: No.36 in the Road series. Chris Peterson and Phil DeVille don't always get along there's that whole thing where he's dating Phil's daughter. Until one night, when something horrible happens. Please review.


**Opens A Window****  
**Acepilot

AN - No.36 in the Road series. This is a fic that I was a bit torn over writing. It's a character development fic, but not for any of the originals - this is a fic about Chris Peterson, from "A Sense of Deja Vu", and his deepening relationship with not only Cara, but also the father/son bond between him and Phil. I know it's not exactly what a lot of people expect, but I hope you don't mind it.

Disclaimer - the characters in this fic are property of KlaskyCsupo. Chris, Cara, Marcus and the other original characters are my creations, however.

---

It takes me several minutes to disassociate myself from my dream, and in that time, the phone which I could have sworn I was hallucinating rings out at least once, maybe twice. When it starts ringing a third time I'm still a little weary but at least this time I'm conscious enough to actually pick the thing up.

"Whoever this is," I start tiredly, "it is half past two in the morning. Get a life."

"Mr. D?"

I frown and all but groan in frustration. "Chris?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Chris, I'm not sure if I ever taught you how to get on my good side, but this isn't it."

There's a pause, like he's thinking about this, but then he speaks like he hadn't heard the words. "Mr. D, I need you to come pick me up."

My frown deepens and I feel my aging brow crease. "Chris, I would not pick one of my actual children up at this hour of the morning. I'm certainly not going to get you."

"Mr. D, please..."

I don't think I've ever heard Chris Peterson say please in my life.

And it's at about this point that I realise that the voice I'm hearing on the phone bears very little relation to Chris Peterson as I know him. The Chris Peterson I've known and warred with for years now is upbeat, unstoppable. A never-ending spout of witty banter.

The Chris Peterson I'm speaking to now is subdued, quiet - not tired, but...defeated.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"I'm at the Nineteenth and Fourth Station. I'll wait for you out the front?"

I nod. "Alright."

I hang up the phone and, almost simultaneously, I hear the click of the lamp's switch. "Who was that?" Kimi asks from next to me.

I rise and walk over to my closet, pulling out some clothes. "Chris."

I turn just in time to see her raise an eyebrow at me. "Chris? Chris Peterson?"

I nod. "The very same."

"And you're going out because..."

"He needs me to pick him up," I tell her.

She gives me a pointed look. "At two thirty in the morning?"

"I think something's wrong," I tell her, "but I don't know what. I don't think he wanted to talk about it on the phone, and I didn't want to press."

She just nods. "Are you going to take Cara?"

I give the question some serious consideration. The real question was, was Chris calling me because I'm his girlfriend's father, or because I'm the only authority figure he trusts? Especially if whatever is going on does, as I'm beginning to suspect, have something to do with his family life.

"I don't know what kind of state I'm going to find him in," I finally declare, "and I don't know if he wants to see her or not. Or, moreso, if he wants her to see him."

"Alright," she nods. "How long will you be?"

I shrug. "I really don't know."

She doesn't exactly look thrilled by that idea, but she hold my eye contact as she says, "Okay."

I fall down gently to my knees on the bed and kiss her. "I'll see you later, okay?"

She smiles and kisses me back. "Alright. See you at a more decent hour. If you wake me back up sneaking in, I'll kill you."

----

I'd been prepared for something to be wrong. I was fully expecting it. I was expecting to find a miserable, saddened wreck of a young man, shattered that the tentative family dynamic with which he'd always surrounded himself had finally imploded.

But I was not expecting this.

"My god," I whisper as he looks up and sees me across the entry foyer to the train station.

I recognize Chris by his height and blonde-tipped brown hair. But that's as much of him as I can recognize. He has a blackened left eye, to the point of it almost being swollen shut. And, just under it, there's an adhesive bandage not quite long enough to cover a cut that runs down his cheek. Dried blood is flaking off the edges of the bandage. He seems to be holding his right arm close to his chest, and not moving the hand if he can at all avoid it. And when he finally does walk toward me, he's moving with a distinct limp. He's missing the black coat that seems glued to him whenever he's not at school.

"Hey, Mr. D," he greets me, attempting something of his normal upbeat voice but failing dismally. He looks a bit woozy and, without thinking, I whip off my coat and wrap it around his shoulders.

"Hell, Chris, what..." I take a deep breath and stop myself from asking any questions I shouldn't. He probably, I remind myself, doesn't want to talk about it. Yet. "Come on, we're going to a hospital, now."

"No, Mr. D," he rasps. "I don't want to go to a hospital. I'm fine."

I stand back and fold my arms. "You're fine, huh?"

"Well, I've been better, but what can you do?" He shrugs, but immediately winces at the movement. I shake my head.

"Come on, Chris, we've got to get you medical attention."

"I'm fine," he insists, almost growling. "My ankle's just sprained. My arm's fine, just sore."

"And your face?"

He acts like he doesn't hear the question. "I just need a place to sleep, that's all. I just...I just need to lay up for the night on your couch and I'll be ready to go."

"Forget it, Chris. I'm taking you to a hospital."

"They ask too many questions!" he all but cries, and attracts the curious stares of the other handful of occupants of the station at this ungodly hour - a handful of teens, a few weary looking people - probably shift workers - and a pair of police officers. He notices the attention and lowers his voice. "Hospitals ask questions, like how this happened, and I...well, I don't want..."

I'd thought as much. "Alright." I ponder my next move for a few seconds. "We've got to get you some medical attention, though Chris. You're going to need stitches, at the very least."

"It can't be anywhere public," he tells me. "I'll go see my GP tomorrow."

I finally decide on the best course of action. "No, I've got a better idea. Come on."

"We're not going to go to a hospital, are we?" he asks, struggling along in my wake. Reluctantly, I wrap an arm around his shoulder and let him lean on me as we walk back to the carpark.

"Yes," I tell him, and feel him tense, as if preparing to bolt. Not that he'd get very far, unwilling to extend his arm and limping on one leg. He'd fall flat on his injured face within half a step. "But I'll take care of it."

---

I pace in the waiting room quietly, trying to watch the news channel broadcasting on the TV on the far wall but finding myself too distracted by the buzzing in my head.

Finally, after what seems like forever, a familiar face emerges and nods to me. I move over hurriedly, breaking away from the pattern I was trying to imprint in the carpet. "Hey, how is he?"

Suzie Carmichael is, as ever, all business. "Pretty messed up. I gave him some stitches for the cut on his face, and some ice for his eye, but you were right - his arm is broken. His leg isn't, but it'll probably be sore for a few days. He also had assorted cuts and scrapes over most of his body. I don't think any of them are going to be infected, but I want you to keep an eye on him. If things start flaring up, then I'll prescribe some antibiotics."

"Thanks," I tell her, sincerely. "I realize it's some kind of breach of etiquette to call you up at like, three in the morning and ask for medical treatment, but - "

"I'm used to it, and it's really no problem for a friend," she assures me. But then her eyes narrow, and I can tell she's about to ask the question that she must have been dying to ask for hours. Because, after all, it's the same one I'm aching to know the answer to. "Phil...what happened to him?"

I look over at the door to the examination room where Suzie had been treating Chris for what seemed like hours, but I guess was probably closer to just one, if any at all. "I don't know," I confess, "but I have a hunch."

She looks at me expectantly.

I shake my head slowly. "It's not a hunch I want to venture," I tell her. "And I kind of think he'd prefer things to be...well, I don't think he wants things publicized."

She sighs, but nods in acceptance. "Alright. I'm going to release him into your care - I gave him a tetanus shot and he'll probably want to take some painkillers for a while. I think he's got a headache, and that leg and arm are going to throb like hell."

"Okay," I tell her. "Thanks for everything."

"It's never a problem, Phil. I'll see you and Kimi soon, hey?"

"Definitely," I tell her.

"I've got to get onto my rounds," she tells me, leading me over to the counter. "Give me a call if anything comes up with him, and I'll get you to come in when the cast is ready to come off."

"Alright."

She gives me a sad sort of smile, and then turns away and strolls deeper into the hospital.

And realizing what I now have to do, I take a deep breath and step into the examination room.

Chris is sitting on the bed in the room. One arm is in a sling, the other is at his side holding a bag of ice probably intended for his black eye, but he doesn't seem to have the energy to raise it. He's habitually tapping his good leg against the base of the bed, and looks...he looks like he's not quite a part of this world anymore, just staring off hopelessly into space.

"Hey, Chris," I say, trying to keep my voice as normal as possible.

"Hey," he says, his voice still raspy. "Are they letting me out of this place yet?"

I nod. "Whenever you're ready."

"Good," he says, without room for argument, but then he doesn't move an inch.

I consider, for about a hundredth of a second, dancing around the topic, for what good it'll do me - or him, for that matter. But then I decide that the frontal approach is probably best.

"What happened tonight, Chris?" I ask.

I can see him debating whether to tell me or not. I can practically see it churning in his head, wondering whether I should know, whether I'm trustworthy or not. Or maybe whether I'll stand by his side.

And then, all at once -

"I got into a fistfight with my dad," he tells me. "He attacked me with a knife and knocked me down the stairs. That's how I broke my arm and sprained my leg - it got caught in the banister rails."

I swallowed. I'd kind of expected that answer.

The first time I met John Peterson, it hadn't exactly been an overwhelmingly positive experience. The man was tall - slightly moreso than Chris - and had some serious muscle to back it up. He simply oozed aggression, and it was one of the first Parent-Teacher Interviews where I felt scared to tell him his son was making a nuisance of himself.

I learned over the years - both from scuttlebutt and later from Chris himself - that the man wasn't a great parent. Chris' mother had died when he was young, and I take it that the elder Peterson had never really coped with it, and took it out on his son a lot. Chris' schoolwork would have been effected if not for his exceptional intelligence, but it had left him with a tendency to clown around, to have fun - to escape the misery at home.

I'd thought that Chris had everything under control. Evidently, I was wrong.

"Why?" I asked.

"It's the anniversary of my mother's death," Chris says, completely unemotionally. Like he's reciting some dull, unimportant fact. "He's never good around this time. He doesn't drink, but he's...well..."

I realize, suddenly, that I'm seeing Chris Peterson break down into tears.

Part of me feels like this should be some kind of significant event. I've never seen Chris display a negative emotion in the time I've known him, and now...

But, oddly, my sudden instinct is to give him a shoulder to cry on.

He collapses against me completely, and I feel the tension in his body snap as he cries. And he does cry. I haven't felt such raw emotion from anyone since...since Kimi's miscarriage, I guess.

"It's okay," I assure him, and I feel something...different.

In the space of a few minutes, Chris Peterson went from being my daughter's boyfriend, to being...family.

"We don't have to talk anymore," I tell him. "Come on, I'll take you home."

He breathes in sharply. "Hang on -"

"Not there," I tell him. "Back to my place. You can stay on the couch."

He looks up at me and smiles, slowly. "Thank you."

I tousle his hair. "Come on, Chris. Let's go."

---

It's almost five in the morning by the time Chris finally drifts off to a fitful sleep on the fold-out couch. I sit up watching him sleep for what feels like forever, until the sun starts peeking in through the lounge room window. I finally move, getting up and shutting the curtains, trying to extend the darkness so the poor kid can get some rest.

Kimi's up first, unsurprisingly, at six in the morning, ready to kick everyone into gear for a new morning. She motions for me to join her in the kitchen, and, steeling myself for I don't know what, I follow her.

"What happened to him?" she asks, concern and shock at the extent of Chris' injuries lacing her voice.

"An awful lot," I tell her. "It's not so much the physical issues I'm worried about, though. I don't know if he's going to get through this emotionally. He's not going to be able to go back home, I think. It's just..."

"Does he have any family around here?"

I shake my head. "No, he and his family came here from New York when he was younger. No family around here."

She looks at me closely. "He's going to stay here, isn't he?"

I nod. "If he wants to. I can't...I can't send him away. If he doesn't want to go to New York and live with whatever family he's got there, then he's going to stay here and...I don't know. We'll sort something out."

"This has really done something to you, hasn't it?" she asks, reaching over to run a hand over my cheek.

"Yeah, it has," I agree.

Marcus creeps into the kitchen moments later. "Uh...Dad - "

"We know, Marcus," Kimi cuts him off. "It's a long story, and we'll tell you later."

He nods, seemingly acceptingly. "Okay. Are we being quiet?"

We both nod.

"Okay," his voice drops several decibels.

But it is then countered by the shriek of surprise that comes from the base of the stairs.

My eyes meet Kim's and I realize that, for just a moment, I'd forgotten that Chris was Cara's boyfriend.

I emerge into the lounge room, Kimi and Marcus on my heels, in time to see Chris' eyes flickering open and Cara rushing across the room to fall next to his side on her knees.

"Cara?" he rasps out, rolling slightly to face her.

"What happened?" she asks, quietly, taking his hand in both of hers.

I can't hear anything he says to her. But I watch them closely. I watch her run her hand over his forehead, and I watch him rise slowly to take her, as best he is able, in his arms.

"You going to set rules for them or something?" Kimi asks, wrapping her arms around my waist.

I surprise myself by saying, "I don't know yet."

Part of me wonders if I'm not making some dreadful mistake. But another part of me knows I'm not. Because, against the odds, Chris Peterson has wormed his way into this family. I think he probably did it a long time ago, it just took until last night, when I was finally, truly called on to be a father to him, that I realized.

Chris hauls himself to his feet, a little woozily, and Cara holds his hand and guides him over to the kitchen. He surprises me even further by smiling, just slightly, with Cara by his side and, undoubtedly, making him feel a lot better by her mere presence. The same way Kimi does for me.

"So, Phil, what's for breakfast?"

I grin.

Yeah, he's part of the family.

----

I don't know what I think of that one. It probably could have been better, but it'll give me some interesting opportunities to try things out with Chris that I couldn't before. Please read/review.


End file.
